Foes With Benefits
by Moira Colleen
Summary: Blackice one-shots, updated as inspiration strikes. Chapter 3, Uncommon Ground: Pitch turns Jack's revenge on its head, and the two begin to come to an understanding. (Yes, they will do other things together at some point.)
1. Playtime

The wave of dizziness hit Jack without warning. He paused in mid-air and glanced to get his bearings. Spying the playground of the Thaddeus Burgess Elementary School, Jack descended with a vague plan of sitting on one of the swings until his head stopped spinning, but before he reached the ground, the lightheadedness redoubled. Jack tried to stabilize his flight, but the wind refused to cooperate. More alarmingly, his movements grew stiff and sluggish, as though his own body were no longer entirely his to command. Could spirits have seizures?

The sense of vertigo persisted until Jack no longer knew which way was up or down. His limbs and his torso seemed to telescope inward. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the dizziness ceased, and Jack landed in an undignified heap on a bed of gravel. For a moment, he lay still. That hadn't hurt nearly as much as he thought it would. Especially considering the size of the stones he could see in the dim light cast by the streetlamps.

Wait—stones? The elementary school playground was solid asphalt bordered by chain-link fence and the science class' gardening plot. Since when was there any gravel nearby? Jack made to push himself upright to get a better look at his surroundings.

Nothing happened. He couldn't sit up. He couldn't tense a single muscle. His eyes remained fixed on the tan stones below his face. Jack tried to draw a breath to call out, but though he felt no sense of suffocation, even his breathing had ceased.

Not that there would be anyone to hear at this time of night, he thought, fighting down panic. School was out for the weekend. Jack had a horrible image of himself lying prone in the unshaded schoolyard for days, only to be discovered Monday morning by frightened children who wouldn't have a clue what to do for him.

No, no, that won't happen, he told himself. It's just some kind of seizure. It'll pass. And even if it doesn't, I'm supposed to meet with the other Guardians on Saturday. They'll come looking for me if I don't show, right?

He wished he felt more confident of that.

In any case, he needed to calm down. The last thing he needed right now was for his terror at his predicament to draw the attention of—

"Ah, there you are," a voice purred from the darkness. Footsteps sounded from somewhere to Jack's right. "I might have known I'd find you in the playground," the voice went on. The footsteps stopped close by. A shadow loomed over Jack. He felt a breeze stir his hair; then impossibly large fingers closed around his waist and lifted him effortlessly. If he could, Jack would have gasped as the gravel bed receded and resolved into a huge square of pale brown sand contained within wooden walls. A giant sandbox?

The hand holding Jack turned him to face a pair of metallic eyes the size of Jack's head, gleaming maliciously in an angular face the length of the prisoner's body. Uneven teeth flashed in a smile. Jack had heard stories from North and Bunny about Pitch growing to the size of a thundercloud in the old days, but no one had thought he still had the power to do something like that.

But he hadn't, had he? Or the sandbox had grown, too, which was ridiculous. No, Jack realized, it was Jack himself who had shrunk to the size of one of the dolls Pippa and Sophie liked to play with.

"You make an adorable doll," Pitch said, as though reading his mind. "Don't you, Jack?"

"Yes, Pitch," Jack found himself answering against his will. He tried to say more, to tell the boogeyman off, but after that single vocalization his body remained stubbornly mute and immobile as before.

"And I suppose a toy is meant to be played with, but I'm afraid you won't find many children here for a few days. I don't imagine you've arranged to meet any of your little friends so late at night, either. Well, perhaps I can make up the difference."

Pitch sat down on one of the swings and laid Jack in his lap. He rested his chin on one fist and grasped a suspension chain with the other, still grinning down at his captive. "Now, I know what you're thinking: what does the boogeyman know about playing with toys? But I see a great many things from under the bed, Jack. I know as much about how children play as you do. For example, when a little girl gets a new doll, what's the first thing she does with it?"

"She takes its clothes off," Jack answered against his will.

"Exactly right," Pitch praised. "She takes its clothes off. So, let's do that, shall we?"

Try as he might, Jack could do nothing to resist as Pitch manipulated his arms into more convenient positions to strip away his hoodie. His undershirt followed. Finally, working far more slowly than strictly necessary, Pitch untied the lacings around the legs of Jack's trousers and pulled them off.

"Anatomically correct, I see," Pitch commented, lifting Jack back up to eye level. "You know," Pitch went on, "I've used this Spell of Enslavement any number of times, but I've never gotten around to finding out exactly what it can do to someone. I know you can hear me, but can you see me, Jack? And do remember to call me 'Master.'"

"I can see you, Master." Inwardly, Jack fumed.

"I thought so. Can you feel, too?"

"Yes, Master."

"Excellent." Pitch's grin broadened.

One of the hands holding Jack aloft withdrew, moving down to push his legs apart. Something ridged and yielding pressed lightly against the small of Jack's back and stroked a slow trail down the crease of his buttocks to the base of his testicles. Jack couldn't even yelp.

"Can you feel that, Jack?"

"Yes, Master."

The teasing fingertip moved into Jack's line of vision. It hovered before his eyes for a long moment, then slowly lowered to brush back and forth against his nipples.

"Can you feel that, too, Jack?"

"Yes, Master."

Pitch chuckled. He traced Jack's tiny collarbones and ran his fingertip down Jack's chest. He paused long enough to pet the pale curls below Jack's belly, then slid down to the tip of Jack's member and back, again and again. "If you could, would you be getting hard, Jack?"

"Yes, Master." Even through the compulsion, Jack's voice sounded strained.

"You know, Jack, when we feel an intense sensation, we writhe to try to get away from it, or to put pressure on the nerves so they aren't so sensitive. But you can't do right now, can you? You'd like to squirm, wouldn't you, Jack?

"Y-yes, Master."

"You'd like to pull your hips away and cover yourself with your hands. Or maybe you'd like to push into my fingers as hard and fast as you can. But you can't. You can't come like this, either, can you?"

"No, Ma-master."

"You can't do anything but lie in my hands and feel. It must be torture. Is it torture, Jack?"

"Yes, Master!" The squeal burst out of Jack.

Pitch laughed darkly. Never stopping the light strokes to Jack's helpless penis, he said, "Tell me, Jack: if I were to restore you to yourself right this minute, would you be able to resist bringing yourself off?"

"No, Master!"

"Good, good. So, where do you think I should make you do it? I'll let you choose among three options. Shall we go to Punjam Hy Loo and let the tooth fairies watch their idol play with himself?"

"No, Master, please!"

"Where else, then? Perhaps at the Pole. Yes, I could set you at the top of North's globe, right in the middle of the Workshop, and let you give all the elves and the yetis a show. Would you like that?"

"No, Master!"

Pitch smirked. "Very well. There's only one other option, then. You can entertain me and my Nightmares instead." Soft snorting noises came from the shadows around the playground. Without ceasing his ministrations, Pitch turned Jack so he could see the hundreds of eyes watching all around. He then placed Jack on his back in the middle of the sandbox and withdrew.

The world spun once again. The stones under Jack's body seemed to shrink. He convulsed, gasping for breath. The sudden pressure between his legs was unbearable. Instinctively, his hands flew to his crotch and stroked desperately, heedless of the audience.

When it was over, Jack collapsed, panting. The sound of Pitch's laughter filled his ears, and he brought his semen-smeared hands up to cover his flushed face.

By the time Jack recovered enough to sit up, the boogeyman and his Nightmares had vanished. Sand clung to Jack's sweat-soaked back. He found his staff lying beside him. His clothes, on the other hand, proved more elusive; he finally found them hanging at the top of the elementary school's flagpole. He pulled them on in spite of the sand and fled to his lake to wash off, thanking his lucky stars that the meeting wasn't until tomorrow.

Afterward, he swore, Pitch would pay dearly.


	2. Fun Is Relative

Though pine trees stood straight and tall all around, the line of vegetation at the edge of the clearing ended abruptly. Even the most stubborn of weeds seemed reluctant to grow too close to the deep pit in the sandy soil at the center of the glade. A few early crickets chirped among the sparse tufts of grass that waved in the cool spring breeze, but otherwise, the forest lay quiet under the light of the descending crescent moon.

The darkness in the pit grew deeper in defiance of the angle of the moonlight. Tendrils of shadow crept out into the minute ridges around the opening like runnels of ink. As the questing darkness reached the colonizing grass, the crickets fell silent. A shape formed in the heart of the pit, impossibly dark against the blackness surrounding it. The shape surged upward…

…and stopped with a strangled curse, stuck halfway through the opening. The flowing vanguard of shadows rushed back to the center like water sucked through a straw as the struggling shape resolved into a manlike figure with upswept hair, angular features, and a trailing black robe that flapped in a most undignified manner as the hoop shaped structure that held him was winched upward by sturdy hemp ropes.

Once the prisoner was clear of the pit, the structure holding him swung backward until the rim of the hoop caught between the trunks of two trees, leaving the captive's legs dangling a few inches above the ground. The captive snarled and braced his hands on the rim, trying to dislodge himself. The effort only earned him even less mobility as his hands stuck fast. He willed the shadows to tear the trap apart, but for some reason his power just drained away into the hoop. A soft blue radiance shone from behind him, moving closer in time to the padding of bare feet among the undergrowth.

"Evening, Pitch." A cheery young man with white hair and a glowing shepherd's crook stepped into view. "Or more like really early morning. Man, I was starting to think you were never coming out of there. What took you so long?"

Pitch glared at him. "Get me out of this right now, Jack," he snapped. The light coming from the staff cast the device around his waist into sharp relief. It was a surprisingly simple structure—a ring of willow or grapevine about twice the width of Pitch's shoulders, filled with a loose webbing of leather sinew that held his torso in an unbreakable grip. The cords binding the net to the edge had somehow looped themselves around his wrists.

"Aw, where's your sense of fun? You had it with you the other night," Jack teased. He darted forward and slid a pair of smaller dream-catchers around Pitch's ankles, using the lines attached to them to draw the boogeyman's feet up and apart and secure them to the rim of the larger one. Despite his best efforts, Pitch's knees were forced outward and pressed against the rim as well.

"Dream-catchers? Really, Jack?" Pitch said. "Do you honestly expect this to hold me?"

"They're doing all right so far," Jack said, stepping back to admire his work. "I know, it won't last all that long. If it were that easy, North and the others would've done this ages ago. And, actually, I don't really want it to last forever. Just long enough."

"Just long enough for a little petty revenge, I see. How childish of you, Jack."

In the light of the staff, Jack's grin took on a slightly sinister cast. He stepped out of sight, moving behind Pitch once more. Without warning, a length of fabric snaked around to fill Pitch's mouth.

"Oh, what I've got in mind is far from childish." Jack's breath ghosted against Pitch's ear as he knotted the gag in place. "I wouldn't let a child anywhere near what I'm planning on doing. But that doesn't mean it won't be fun. We had fun the other night, didn't we? Well, you did, anyway. I know for a fact that you did. Fun's kind of my specialty, you know; I always know when somebody's enjoying themselves.

"And I thought, well, fun's relative, isn't it? It all depends on the person who's actually having it. And I thought about what you said, how you'd always wondered what that spell could do to someone, but I guessed you'd never had the chance to find out. And that got me thinking about the things _I've_ wondered about that I've never had the chance to try. I'll admit I haven't been around nearly as long as you, but three hundred years is enough time to see lots of things that some of the people involved obviously enjoy, but you can't do by yourself."

Jack stepped back into view. He hooked his staff over the largest dream-catcher, keeping the end between his toes so the light wouldn't falter.

"For example, did you know you can't tickle yourself?"

Pitch drew a sharp breath through his nose. His eyes darted around the clearing, seeking a means of escape.

"Now, I've got some good friends these days, but that's not really the kind of thing you can just bring up in casual conversation," Jack went on. "I don't even know how that would work with people covered in fur or feathers, not to mention a guy made of sand. And North's, well... let's just say he's not really my type.

"But I figure you owe me after your little prank. And I'll bet it'll really be worth it. I mean, I go barefoot all the time, so my feet are pretty much all callus at this point, but you don't even walk much, do you? You do most of your traveling by shadow. I'll bet your feet are smooth as a baby's bottom."

Jack ran his hands over Pitch's left calf, searching for the top of his boot. When he couldn't find it, he summoned a sharp blade of ice and carefully sliced through the fabric. He trailed the tip of his right forefinger along the length of the bared sole, chuckling when Pitch jerked in his bonds.

"Ooh, it's like silk," Jack purred, looking up into his captive's eyes. "And you know a great perk about holding you with dream-catchers? They've got feathers on them."

Pitch made a desperate sound and began to struggle frantically. Jack caught his heel and lifted a feather into view.

"And all the feathers have a different texture," he said conspiratorially. "This one, for example, is nice and fluffy. Let's see how it feels between your toes."

Jack brushed the plume along the underside of Pitch's toes, starting at the base. The digits wriggled more and more desperately with every stroke, until Jack finally had to shift his hand from the heel to hold them back. Once they were mostly immobilized, he poked the feather into the webbing between each pair. Pitch twitched and snorted at each stroke. After what to the boogeyman seemed ages, Jack finally ended the torment, only to repeat the whole process on his flailing right foot.

"Now, that was fun," Jack said when he finally gave Pitch a moment to catch his breath. "You ready for more? Good," he said, ignoring the violent shaking of his victim's head.

"This next feather is more of a precision instrument," Jack said, presenting it for inspection. "It's kind of stiff, with a tiny little tip, just right for strumming those sensitive soles."

Jack ran the tip of the feather along the same path his finger had taken earlier. He alternated between long vertical strokes and short horizontal ones, paying special attention to the arches. Muffled cackling burst from behind Pitch's gag.

"Man, I could just play with your feet for hours." Jack grinned at the gasping boogeyman. "But we only have until dawn, I guess. That's when the bad dreams are supposed to evaporate from the dream-catcher, so you'll probably be freed then. So, let's get to the next part. I know I'm gonna like it."

Jack released the feather and took up the knife again. He carefully slit the inseam of Pitch's leggings from ankle to groin, peeling them away to leave the whole lower half of Pitch's body exposed.

"Looks like you're enjoying this as much as I am," Jack joked. He tapped the tip of Pitch's swollen member, smirking when this occasioned a muffled yelp. "But we'll get to that in a bit. First I've got a little thing to keep you going if I need a break."

He pulled out a simple device of two metal rings connected by three short metal rods. Affixed to the larger of the two rings was yet another dream-catcher sporting a trio of feathers.

"I haven't forgotten how it felt to have to hold perfectly still while you played with me," Jack explained, sliding the chilly device into Pitch's anus. The strands of the dream-catcher gripped the cheeks on either side, holding the toy in place. "I can't keep you from tensing up, but this will make sure you stay nice and open. Now, two fluffy feathers to fill you up, and one stiff one for a special surprise."

The first two feathers slid through the strands, ghosting against Pitch's inner walls and making him giggle. Jack waited for Pitch's hips to stop shifting, then slowly inserted the third. The stiff vanes popped through the strands one at a time, flicking the same spots over and over. The shaft was curved so that the tip stroked a torturous trail as Jack pressed it deeper, until finally it hit something that made Pitch's whole body convulse.

"There?" Jack asked. He experimentally drew the feather in and out a few times until he felt sure he had the right spot. The webbing of the dream-catcher kept the quill in place, while the beads at the base provided a nice counterbalance that set the feather bobbing with every movement of the boogeyman's hips.

"Now, what should we do about that dick of yours, hmm? Let's go back to soft and fluffy for a while, okay?" Jack reached around behind Pitch's legs to grab one of the feathers hanging from the main dream-catcher. Pitch's eyes bulged at the sight of the ostrich plume. His penis twitched in horrified anticipation as the soft vanes descended to swirl around the head.

A rattling shriek echoed among the trees. Jack trailed the feather from base to tip; Pitch's eyes rolled in his head. Jack brushed the length of the fluffy plume over the weeping slit; Pitch arched his back and screeched. The strokes grew faster, unbearably inflaming, but too soft to satisfy. Pitch bucked and whimpered, trying in vain to press against a caress that pulled away even as he reached for it, while the stiffer shaft buried in his ass tapped against his prostate over and over. After what seemed like hours of torment, he finally felt a welling heat that he pursued with a desperate eagerness, but just before the pressure could reach its peak, the tormenting feathers abruptly withdrew.

Pitch wailed helplessly.

A few moments passed. Pitch quivered in his bonds, muscles spasming throughout his body. A light breeze flowed through the clearing and made the drops of precome at the tip of his penis vibrate before they fell.

"Hey, sorry about that." The sound of Jack's voice broke through Pitch's suffering. He looked up to see the winter spirit smirking at him. Jack stepped back a few paces so Pitch could see his thighs as he undid his own trousers.

"I hate to cut you off like that, but I just can't wait any longer. We'll pick back up in a minute." Jack pulled his own member out and began to stroke, eyes never leaving Pitch's face. Pitch watched, fuming with a mix of anger and envy as Jack treated himself to tight, firm stroking that had him moaning blissfully in moments. When he was finished, he put himself away and grinned.

"What's wrong, Pitch?" he asked. "I thought you liked watching me. Wasn't it fun?"

Pitch glared, but fear overwhelmed his annoyance as Jack returned and tucked the stiff feather back into his ass.

"So, what were we doing? Oh, right. Soft and fluffy. Well, let's try a different one now." Jack reached for the next feather on the main dream-catcher. "This one came from a noisy Asian birdy known as a peacock." Jack ran his fingers along the vanes of the long feather. "A lot of different textures on this one. I think I'll like it."

Jack attacked the underside of Pitch's erection, drawing the feather sideways like the bow of a violin. The soft down near the base of the quill gave way to widely-spaced, stiffer vanes that flicked one at a time against Pitch's skin. The feather was so long that his thighs got a ticklish preview of each new texture. The vanes in the last few inches were much closer together, like the teeth of a flexible comb. It only a took a few long passes of the plume to bring back the hot pressure to Pitch's groin, but once again, Jack stopped just a moment too soon.

"Something wrong, Pitch?" Jack asked. "Oh, silly me; you can't answer with that gag in. Tell you what: I'll ask yes or no questions, and you can nod or shake your head, okay? So, you seem uncomfortable. Is there something I can do to help?"

Pitch ground his teeth through the gag. No way was he going to give in to this brat's game. Jack waited a moment, then shrugged.

"I guess you're okay, then. Time for my personal favorite." Jack pulled up the third feather on the dream-catcher, a long, white goose feather trimmed to a fine point. "I think the stiff ones are really the best. That goes for feathers, too, "he added with a wink.

The tiny tip of the feather smeared through Pitch's precome, forcing an unmanly squeal from his throat. His legs flexed violently until the entire structure holding him bounced up and down with his efforts to get away, but no matter how he struggled or where he moved, the wicked feather always found its mark with unerring accuracy. It wandered in complicated patterns over his penis and testicles, sometimes straying to flutter against his perineum, constantly changing speed and pressure to keep the sensation keen. Pitch writhed non-stop, whimpering frantically. He felt his orgasm approaching once again, and he knew beyond question that Jack had no intention of letting him finish. Tears ran down his face as his fear proved true.

Jack reached behind Pitch's head and untied the saliva-soaked gag. He used the relatively dry ends to wipe away the tears and sweat from the boogeyman's face. He let Pitch catch his breath, then asked, "What do you want, Pitch?"

Pitch shut his eyes. "You know what I want," he grated.

Jack made a sound between a laugh and a scoff. "You'll have to tell me," he said. He tapped the head of Pitch's penis once with the tip of the feather. Pitch's hips spasmed."Tell me," Jack sang teasingly.

Pitch pursed his lips and shook his head. Jack began flicking the feather over Pitch's member at random. "You know, you're gonna be stuck here till dawn," he said conversationally. "I won't be, though. I've had a lot of fun already, and I kinda think it wouldn't be a good idea for me to stick around much longer anyway. I don't really _need_ to do any more. Of course, that means you'll be sitting here like this for a couple of hours with nobody to help out. Well, I guess maybe one of the tooth fairies might pass through, but that's a long shot. You sure there's nothing you want me to do before I leave?"

"You bastard!"

"Well, if you're gonna be insulting, I'll just go." Jack gave Pitch's erection one final, long stroke, then turned and started walking away. Pitch bit his lip. Jack wasn't really leaving?

The light from Jack's staff vanished through the trees. Pitch breathed through his nose, struggling to ignore the throbbing in his groin. A moment later, something unexpectedly nudged the stiff feather still buried inside him, and Pitch screeched.

"Jack! Please!"

An uncharacteristically dark laugh came from behind him. The blue light flared as Jack walked back into view. "'Please' what, Pitch?" he asked, leaning on his staff.

"Please finish me off."

"You mean kill you? I can't do that, Pitch!" Jack's eyes widened in mock-horror.

Pitch groaned. His shoulders slumped in defeat. "I mean give me an orgasm, Jack," he clarified.

"Oh," Jack said, as though it were a revelation. "With which feather?"

Pitch shook with terror at the thought of being teased yet again, even with the prospect of release. He took a deep breath to steel himself. "The last one," he said, praying to whatever deity might be listening that Jack would be merciful enough to let him come this time.

Jack lifted his hand to let Pitch's aching penis rest on his palm. With his other hand he drew the tiny tip of the stiff feather along the length of the shaft in rapid, firm strokes. Pitch thrust his hips back and forth, relishing the added friction of Jack's supporting hand. He was vaguely aware that Jack was laughing at him, but all his attention was focused on the building pressure between his legs. Just before the feeling broke, Jack took his hand away, leaving only the tickling of the feathers inside and out to drive the sensation. Pitch screamed as he finally came, buttocks clenching as though to squeeze out every last drop of spend.

When the last ripple of pleasure faded, Pitch opened his eyes to find himself alone. He lay back in his bonds, relaxing as much as he could under the circumstances. He had known Jack would want revenge for his prank with the Spell of Enslavement, but he had never imagined the boy could be so inventive.

"Finally," he murmured to himself, as he had not so very long ago, "someone who knows how to have a little fun."


	3. Uncommon Ground

It was the silence that woke Jack up.

The Guardians' monthly meeting had run long, thanks in no small part to the bickering over the comparative importance of holidays that always seemed to spring up these days (and was definitely not instigated by Jack at every opportunity). Tooth had long since given up trying to get the meeting back on track, while Jack and Sandy sat on the sidelines and made sly observations to keep the ball rolling whenever the argument flagged. Then, just before the fun could end and everyone went their separate ways, a blizzard came howling up the mountain and surrounded the Workshop in a swirling wall of white that even a certain legendary reindeer would hesitate to venture into. There was no question of anyone leaving after that. (There were also no questions about where the storm had come from, for which Jack was grateful.) The companions had adjourned to one of the Pole's residential wings for a meal and a card game that shifted over to a chess match between Tooth and Bunny as, one by one, the other Guardians dozed off.

Jack had fallen asleep to the clicking of chessmen and the distant shouting of yetis and jingling bells of elf hats. No part of the Pole was ever truly quiet; one shift or another was always busy in the Workshop twenty-four hours a day. Now, though, all Jack could hear was the sound of his own heartbeat. The air felt cool and damp and smelled faintly musty, quite unlike the warm, slightly arid atmosphere of the Workshop, with its mingled scents of paint and pastries. The surface he was lying on didn't feel much like the sofa where he had dozed off, and it definitely wasn't one of North's guest beds, either. It was cushioned, certainly, but strangely firm and angled under his back like a physician's examination table.

Jack opened his eyes and tried to sit up, only to be held in place by restraints around his wrists and ankles. Directly in front of him stood Pitch, appreciatively scanning Jack's nude body. Jack craned his neck to look down at himself, and then thumped his head back against the padding with an annoyed scoff.

"Oh, man, did you seriously shave me? Do you know how slowly my hair grows? I'm gonna be bald for a couple of years!"

"Only in a few strategic areas," Pitch said unrepentantly.

"Fine." Jack rolled his eyes. "So, what's it gonna be tonight? We playing 'living doll' again, or what? You realize I'm just gonna get you back for it, whatever it is."

Pitch leaned in close to look into Jack's eyes. "I'm counting on it," he whispered with an intensity that made Jack's breath catch. Then he drew back and went on as if he had said nothing at all, "No, I thought we might pick up where we left off last time. You were in such a hurry that you left before you could have your turn."

"My turn?" Jack echoed, perplexed.

"Yes, of course, Jack," Pitch purred, circling around Jack as he talked. Jack tried to turn his head to follow the boogeyman's movements, but a band of black sand flowed around his forehead to keep him facing straight ahead. "It was very clear to me that you wanted one. All that talk about things you wanted to try but you couldn't do alone. That means you must have tried at some point. You even said as much: 'you can't tickle yourself.' It must have been such a frustrating discovery."

Pitch stopped and pressed his lips so close to Jack's ear that the winter spirit could feel the heat of his breath. "Everything you did to me was something you secretly dreamed of someone doing to you, wasn't it, Jack?" he whispered. "You talked as though you couldn't do those things with your friends because it was impractical, but your fears give you away. The truth is, you didn't dare ask them, did you? You were afraid to admit that what you really wanted was to be stripped naked and strapped down and tickled until you can't breathe for laughing. That's the real reason you came to me, isn't it, Jack? Because you knew I'd understand."

Pitch moved back around to study Jack's face. Jack stared back in a mixture of apprehension and excitement. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he breathed through parted lips. Pitch raised a hand into view and gracefully crooked his long fingers one by one in the air just above Jack's belly. Jack's breath came faster; his body seemed to strain hungrily toward the gesture. His pale member was already growing pinker as it stirred and stiffened. Inwardly, Pitch crowed in triumph.

Outwardly, though, he looked resigned. He shrugged his shoulders and gestured curtly; the nightmare sand that bound Jack to the table fell away. Jack sat up, looking deliciously bereft.

"What – what are you doing?" Jack asked, almost plaintively.

Pitch kept his expression carefully neutral. "I brought you here for revenge, Jack," he explained evenly. "It wouldn't be vengeance to give you what you want, now, would it?" He tossed a loose ball of fabric to Jack. "You can get dressed before I send you back if you want. No? Very well." The shadows on the stone floor began to converge around the table.

"Wait!" Jack burst out, just before the darkness reached him.

Pitch arched a hairless brow at him. "Yes, Jack?" he drawled.

Jack worried his lower lip between his teeth, while Pitch waited in concealed glee. Finally, Jack came to a decision. "Look, you're right, okay?" he said. "I can't ask anybody else. I mean, what're they gonna think? But you already know. Please, just… please, will you _please_ do it?"

Pitch grinned openly. "Do what, Jack?" he asked. "What is it that you want me to do? You'll have to tell me."

Jack's head shot up at the echo of his own words. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "I want you to tie me up and tickle me. I don't even care how you do it; I just want you to do it. Please, Pitch."

Pitch stalked closer, bending down until he and Jack were almost nose to nose. Holding Jack's gaze, he took back the wad of clothing and tossed it aside. "Lie down," he commanded. Nervously, Jack obeyed.

Pitch reached into the folds of his robe and pulled out several strips of soft fabric. The first pair he used to wrap Jack's ankles; the second went around Jack's forearms halfway between the elbows and wrists. "To make sure your skin isn't scraped raw when you struggle," Pitch answered Jack's unspoken question. Nightmare sand flowed over the strips to shackle Jack's arms up beside his head and his legs a little more than shoulder width apart. "And you _will_ struggle," Pitch added, voice full of dark promise.

"Forgive me if I forego a gag, but I've always appreciated vocal feedback." Pitch returned to his original position, once more studying Jack's bound body. "So… you don't care how I tickle you? Oh, Jack, what a dangerous invitation that is."

Pitch raised his hands again, this time bringing the tips of his forefingers into light contact with Jack's inner wrists at the very base of his palms. Jack gasped in anticipation, but Pitch kept still for a long moment, letting the tension build. Several times he made sudden changes in his expression, quirks of the mouth and eyelids, as though he were about to begin in earnest, and reveled in the way Jack twitched every time. Finally, trembling with pent-up nerves, Jack opened his mouth to protest, to tell Pitch to get on with it, but the words came out as an explosive cackle as Pitch's fingertips abruptly fluttered over his skin from wrists to elbows and back again.

The tickling stopped far too soon for Jack's liking. Pitch pulled his hands away, smirking meaningfully at Jack's now prominent arousal, while Jack self-consciously pressed his lips shut, trying vainly not to blush. Pitch's hands moved back in to trace lazy figures over Jack's upper arms and shoulders. Jack wriggled and snorted with suppressed giggles as Pitch's fingers spider-walked along the sides of his neck and down the center of his throat. His very skin shivered when Pitch reached his clavicle and traveled back out toward his shoulders. Then Pitch dove into the soft hollows under Jacks arms. Like the breaking of a dam, Jack's self-control crumbled, and a cascade of musical laughter poured out to echo through the silent halls of Pitch's lair.

Pitch's fingertips danced up and down in erratic patterns, making the winter spirit jerk from side to side. Jack chuckled breathlessly as Pitch traveled toward the front of his torso. Pitch slotted his fingers into Jack's ribs on one side and strummed the other, switching back and forth without warning. Every pass brought him higher on Jack's chest until he brushed the areolae. Jack's struggles redoubled as Pitch focused on this area, skirting the very edges of the candy-pink disks and gradually spiraling inward until they crinkled like tiny labyrinths around the nipples.

"Do you like this, Jack?" Pitch said, swirling his blunt fingernails in a holding pattern that just barely missed touching those tight peaks. "I do. There's a kind of fear in tickling, you know," he went on. "Can you feel it, Jack? The faint, insidious terror of being totally at my mercy? Never knowing where I'll tickle you next? No matter how many times you've felt it, no matter how much you enjoy it, you're never _really_ prepared for the intensity of the tickling, and on some level your body knows that. Can you guess what I'm going to do next, Jack? Oh, no need to tell me; once again, your fear gives you away. And you're right… but you're also wrong."

Pitch ceased his attentions to press Jack's shoulders back against the table. Jack had time to draw a single ragged breath that burst out again in a squeal as Pitch leaned forward to flick his tongue against the very tip of one of Jack's pebble-hard nipples. The tongue lapped the nipple again and again, drawing out a series of breathless squeaks. The edges of Pitch's robe swung forward and brushed the sides of Jack's erection. Jack bucked his hips forward and whimpered when the fabric just slid away.

Pitch laughed and moved to give the other nipple the same treatment. He lowered one hand to gather up his robe and rub the hem over Jack's penis, then pulled it away when Jack arched forward again.

"Oh, come on, Pitch!" Jack gasped.

"All in good time, Jack," Pitch said. "Maybe," he added, planting a teasing kiss on the tip of Jack's nose. "I'm not nearly finished playing. You're such a marvelous instrument." He splayed his hands on Jack's belly and began to tap his fingers as though playing a keyboard. He moved bit by torturous bit into the recently shaved flesh of Jack's pubic area. Jack convulsed, caught between the conflicting instincts of trying to get away and press into the touch at the same time. Pitch continued relentlessly lower, skirting the base of Jack's penis to wiggle his fingers in the creases of Jack's inner thighs.

Jack giggled madly. Pitch treated his upper thighs to long, continuous strokes from groin to knee; Jack stiffened and squeaked. Pitch directed the nightmare sand around Jack's ankles to pull his legs up so Pitch could reach the cleft of Jack's buttocks; Jack shimmied his hips and whimpered when the movements made his neglected erection bounce against his belly.

Finally, Pitch let the nightmare sand shackles lower Jack's legs back to a resting position. He stood back, watching appreciatively as Jack caught his breath. Jack's eyes were wide and dark, and his lips were swollen with the intensity of his arousal. His nipples stood out, stiff and dusky against the pallor of his heaving chest. Most prominent, though, was the flushed member that echoed Pitch's own excitement. It seemed to pulse as Pitch watched, as though he could actually see the throbbing sensation that he knew the winter spirit must be suffering and that Pitch remembered so vividly from his own tickling torture.

Jack looked imploringly at Pitch. "Please," he begged, "I can't stand it anymore. Please, Pitch, I _really_ need to come. Tickle my dick if you want to; just make me come, _please_."

"Oh, no, Jack." Pitch grinned evilly. "You said you didn't care how I tickled you. That means _I_ decide what to do to you. And I've decided I won't touch your dick at all tonight."

Jack spluttered in desperate, pleading protests, almost incoherent. Pitch clapped a hand over Jack's mouth. "I didn't say I absolutely wouldn't let you come, Jack," he soothed. "But it'll happen only one way—if it happens at all.

"Do you remember how long you tickled my feet, Jack? How that was all it took to make me so very hard? You said you'd like to play with my feet all night, and to tell you the truth, I wouldn't have minded if you had. There was a spot you kept touching—I remember exactly where it was—that went straight between my legs. I honestly think I could have come from that alone, if you'd kept it up long enough. And maybe you will."

"But my feet aren't ticklish," Jack protested as soon as Pitch released his mouth. "They never have been. They're all callus, remember?"

Pitch chuckled darkly and moved to the end of the table. "Are they?" he asked, running a fingertip along one sole. Jack's leg spasmed, and he laughed in astonished delight at the sensation.

"Sand makes a marvelous exfoliant," Pitch explained. He formed a high chair of nightmare sand and settled comfortably into it. "I hope you're ready." He attacked the soles of Jack's feet with the most ferocity he had shown all night.

Even at the most intense moment so far, Jack had never felt anything like it. In all his fantasies, Jack had never dreamed anything like the feeling of Pitch's fingertips fluttering against the length and breadth of skin that was feeling properly for the first time in three hundred years' memory. The tiniest flick of Pitch's nails sent thrills up Jack's legs and along his spine; from the tips of each toe to the curve of his heels, Pitch treated every millimeter of flesh to relentless tickling that had Jack convulsing with ecstatic agony. Soft tapping to the webbing between his toes elicited squirms and a dry, rapid cackling. Sinuous trails from the blades to the arches made his feet try to flail and drew out longer whines. Eventually, though, Pitch settled in to a rhythmic lengthwise stroking near where the arches met the heels, which had Jack thrusting uselessly against the empty air while he chuckled deep in his belly. Every stroke of Pitch's fingers went right to his erection like the touch of a phantom. The pleasure grew, torturously slow, pressure building until Jack was sobbing with the need for release. He remembered with a pang of terror how he had delayed Pitch's orgasm, and he wondered if the boogeyman intended to return the favor. Jack dragged his eyes open to find Pitch watching with an expression that said he knew exactly what Jack was thinking, but it didn't give away what Pitch intended to do.

The orgasm began almost softly, a bloom of warmth that unfolded by degrees, then rushed with ever-building momentum along his shaft. The feeling shot up into his abdomen, into his spine. It poured down his legs like a torrent. Jack's eyes squeezed shut and his mouth opened wide, but only a hoarse cry escaped as his back bent like a bow. He hung like that for a heartbeat or an eternity, paralyzed by the intensity of the sensation, then fell limply back onto the padded table.

Gradually, Jack's sight and hearing returned. The pressure of the nightmare sand shackles had disappeared at some point. He tried once more to sit up, but fell back grimacing and wrapping his arms around himself as his overworked stomach muscles made their complaints known. Broad hands pressed him to lie down. Jack kept his eyes shut and lay still as a wet cloth washed away sweat and semen and cooled his overheated skin. Another gently patted him dry. When he felt a light blanket settle over him, Jack opened his eyes to give Pitch a questioning look.

"What about you?" Jack said, wearily gesturing toward the bulge in his companion's trousers.

"I can wait," Pitch assured him. "I have every confidence that you'll make it worth my while."

Jack nodded, too tired to think about the implications of all of this. He closed his eyes again as the shadows converged on him once more, depositing him on a broader, softer surface in a room full of the sounds and smells of North's Workshop.


End file.
